


Is this the way love's supposed to be?

by Luthien



Series: Luthien does JB Week 2019 [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, F/M, Fix-It, Heatwave, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy, Skinny Dipping, Weather, a dash of, magic healing orgasms!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-16 16:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20864192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: A summer heatwave hits Tarth, and Jaime has to find some inventive ways of dealing with its effects.For JB Week 2019 Day 2. (Yes, I'm hopelessly behind.)





	Is this the way love's supposed to be?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Heatwave', by Martha & the Vandellas.
> 
> Thanks to Nire and slipsthrufingers for audiencing. I would like to point out that the length of this ficlet, pornlet, hurtcomfortlet or whatever it's turned out to be is at least half slipsthrufingers' fault, because she whispered (well, typed) that fateful word at me: beach.
> 
> Please note: This is both the fourth story that I've written in this little fix-it ficlet universe, and also, amazingly, the fourth chronologically. It should be reasonably self-explanatory if you read it as a stand alone. The basic premise is that Jaime never went south to Cersei, and now he and Brienne are married and together on Tarth.
> 
> If you want to read the other ficlets in this series, they are in chronological order: [A Momentous Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20091838), [Walking in the Sun Once More](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20841821), and [Love is in the Little Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20070313).

The spring that follows the winter-that-might-have-lasted-forever is fleeting, and all too soon they're in the midst of an almost unlooked for summer that feels not quite real. Or it does until one day about four months in, when a ferocious heatwave hits Tarth.

To begin with, it's just a single hot day. It's unpleasant, but bearable. They've lived through much worse. Even much worse weather. But then the second day dawns, and its heat proves even fiercer than the first. Brienne decrees that no one on the island be forced to work outside between late morning and late afternoon, and has the steward send out men to check that there is water enough for all in every village and hamlet, every mining settlement and every little fishing cove.

Jaime can feel it when he wakes on the third morning, the heavy promise of _heat_ in the air. The castle hasn't properly cooled down after the stupidly high temperatures of the last two days, and today is only going to make things worse. It's going to be as hot as Dorne, but about ten times as humid. When he looks out the window, the choppy little waves in the harbour sparkle ominously in the morning sun.

He closes the shutters on the window, and pulls the drapes back across as well. Best not to let any more heat in than absolutely necessary.

Brienne is still asleep, lying on her side with her head mashed against the pillow, pale and nude in the half-light. Jaime can't help but stand there and admire the shape of her, the curves and angles and long, long limbs, still a little tense now, even in sleep—a fact that Jaime tries and fails not to worry about.

Last night they hadn't bothered with sleeping clothes—not that they usually bother with those, or had done even during the relatively cool nights during spring—and they'd thrown off the covers in the night, when the thin barrier even of fine linen was too much to bear. And now here she is, a feast for his eyes, and his eyes alone.

He'd dreamed of her once, like this, all naked, womanly curves in the dim light. He'd never thought to see it. He'd never thought to live that long. But now, here they both are. He doesn't wake Brienne, but leaves her to her rest. Sleeping becomes more difficult every night in this heat, and she needs every single moment of it that she can get.

Jaime goes about his day as usual. He manages to keep within the walls of the Hall for most of the morning, until a dispute about moorings forces him down to see the harbour master. The sun is dazzling, and he feels a headache start up behind his eyes before he's properly in sight of the docks. He should have worn a hat—and no doubt would have, had his path crossed Brienne's before he left.

There's a light sea breeze coming off the water, which makes the heat almost bearable, but by the time Jaime has finished his business in the ancient stone building that houses the harbour master's office, the breeze is dying down. By the time he makes it back up the hill to the Hall, the breeze is just a memory. The air is deadly still, dead calm, almost like the way the air feels right before a storm—but there's no cloud in any direction. The sky stretches out above Tarth, a deep, remorseless blue.

He can feel the heat in the bits of his skin that have been exposed to the sun. He's probably glowing pink. He's already noticing it, the slight irritation of burnt skin, while the sweat dripping from his brow and sticking his shirt to his back only serves to add a different type of discomfort to the mix.

Jaime meets with Brienne for lunch, as he does every day. She exclaims immediately when she sees him, which tells Jaime precisely how much sun he must have caught while he was out, without the need to go anywhere near a looking glass to check. She insists that someone go to the maester to fetch aloe, and to the always-cold stores cavern for ice, but Jaime notices that she does not jump up to check this smallest of hurts herself, as she once would have. She stays where she is, slumped just the slightest bit in her chair at the table. Her bone weariness betrays itself in other ways, too: in the tiny lines at the corners of her mouth, and the shadow around her eyes, so dark that her skin looks almost bruised.

The long, loose silk dress that she's wearing, in deference to the weather—and the fact that even her loosest breeches no longer fit no matter how hard she tries—does little to hide the curve of her body. He'd been giddy with joy when she'd first told him she was with child, but now, months later, as he sees Brienne wilt and falter in the heat, as she never did in all the years of autumn and winter and looming disaster, all he can do is worry.

He wishes, almost, that there was no child, if only Brienne would be strong and whole and _herself_ again. He tries not to show his uneasiness though, plastering a smile on his face as he sits down opposite her and asks about her morning as lunch is served.

Perhaps she sees through the false smile, because her answers to his questions are curt and abrupt, more so than just her usual succinct way with words. Their conversation reminds him, a little, of those first weeks after they met, as she dragged him halfway across Westeros in chains, with him constantly trying to needle her out of her dour silence while looking every moment to advance his ulterior motive of escape.

So perhaps it's no real surprise when Jaime pushes his plate away and says, "We should forget about our duties this afternoon and go for a swim. What do you say, wench? Can you best me in the water?"

Brienne stares at him for a moment, as if he really has been out in the sun too long and it's fried his brains.

"Look at me, Jaime," she says at last, through gritted teeth.

"I'm looking," he says, and makes a point of studying her, letting his eyes travel up then down, and side to side.

He knows the exact moment when she snaps, because her eyes flash with an emotion that he's only ever seen from her in the heat of battle, and she takes in a huge lungful of air before she speaks.

"I'm huge, and ungainly. I can't even walk properly. I feel sick and exhausted _all the time_. Of course I can't best you, in the water or anywhere. And quite apart from that, do you have any idea how long it would take me to waddle down to the shore even if it wasn't hotter than the red god's fire pit out there?"

It's the most she's spoken to him—or anyone—at any one time in days. He keeps his calm, though he knows that that's only likely to wind her up even more, but he's not going to let her extreme frustration—for of course that's what it is—rile him.

"Then we'll take the closed carriage," he says, keeping his voice level and eminently reasonable.

Brienne just looks at him for a long moment, frustration, yes, and hurt too, written all over her face. "Is this what I'm reduced to now?" she asks, voice so low that it's barely more than an exhalation.

Jaime hates himself, just a little. More than just a little, even. But he has to do something. He can't let her continue like this. "Why don't we go down to the smugglers' cove and put our feet in the water for a while?" he suggests. "We can string up a sail to give us shade and just cool down for a bit."

She wants to argue, just because she can't bear to agree with him right now, just because she _needs_ to be perverse. He can see that very clearly, and he gets it, he truly does. But he doesn't back down. He just continues to look at her, steadily and relentlessly, his eyebrows raised in question.

"All right," she says.

"You're su-"

"Don't make me say it again." Brienne turns in her chair to get up. She's slower than she used to be, and she grimaces, but eventually she's standing on her feet, just as tall and impressive as she's always been.

Jaime wants to tell her that he loves her, but he knows better than to do that right now. He wants to tell her that she's beautiful, but he knows better than to do that ever. Instead, he gets to his feet in a single, graceful movement that he knows is like a silent insult to his wife in her current state. An insult and a provocation.

"I'll order the carriage," he says, and offers her his arm.

She doesn't take it.

~*~

Jaime helps Brienne from the carriage, and then keeps hold of her arm as they make their way down the steps cut into the side of the headland at one end of the smugglers' cove. Brienne looks faintly murderous, but she doesn't object in words, so Jaime decides to take that as assent.

The coachman and one of the stable lads follow them down to the beach, where they hammer four stout posts into the sand and then stretch the shadecloth across it. They spread a blanket over the sand beneath the makeshift pavillion, and deposit a large picnic basket and a couple of towels on top of it.

"Return for us in an hour," Jaime tells them.

They bob their heads, and the coachman says, "Yes, milord," before they hurry back up to where the carriage awaits.

Once the carriage moves off, they're left quite alone on the beach. Jaime chose this place for a reason. This little beach is closed in at both ends by high, inaccessible headlands, and the ground falls away into a steep hill below the rarely-used road above. The only way onto the beach, apart from by water, is via the stairs down which they came. It used to be the domain of real smugglers, years ago, bringing in goods from Essos by cover of darkness and evading the excisemen. Supposedly, the cove hasn't been used for that purpose in years, though. Or so people keep telling him.

Regardless of who might use this beach at night, during the day it's his to use. His and Brienne's. No one will disturb them for the next hour. This place and time is theirs alone.

Brienne is standing by the edge of the shadecloth, looking out over the water. It's blazing hot in the sun, and there's still no breeze, but it feels cooler here, with the endless blue water before them, than it did at the Hall, with its thick stone walls retaining the heat of days.

Jaime comes to stand beside her, and starts pulling off his shirt. "It's bloody hot," he says, when she looks at him askance.

"I thought we were just going to dip our feet in the water?" Brienne says.

"Since we're here, and there's no one else about, I thought I might as well dip the rest of me in the water, too. Do you want to come in with me? I won't go out far." He keeps his tone pleasant, conversational, but his words act as a challenge, just as he intends.

"I've been going out in the water to what you might call 'far' since I was a child," Brienne says. "I know these waters better than I know… I don't know, almost anything."

She starts stripping off and, since she's wearing a long, loose dress and—as it turns out—very, _very_ little else, she's standing there, quite naked, while Jaime's still only just managed to get his shirt off. She's right that she's huge, but she seems to think that huge equates to ugly. Jaime thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful than the woman he loves heavy with his child—heavy with _their_ child. The child that he will hold in his arms on the day that it is born and never, ever let go.

"See you in the water," Brienne calls over her shoulder. She doesn't race down the beach towards the water, as she must have done when she was a child, but she manages a reasonably brisk waddle. Jaime watches as the little waves at the water's edge splash about her feet, and shoves his breeches down below his knees before kicking them off the rest of the way.

He catches up to her when she's knee-deep in the surf. The water is almost as calm and still as the air today. It's uncanny in this place, which is called the Stormlands for a reason, as people here never tire of reminding him. But still, he's relieved that Brienne is in no danger of being knocked sideways by a wave rising up out of nowhere.

She turns to him and, while she doesn't quite smile, she's already looking more relaxed than at any point since she woke this morning. "Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all," she says.

"Of course it wasn't a bad idea. It was _my_ idea," Jaime says, just as Brienne bends down and splashes him. Jaime splashes her back, and then battle is joined for a good thirty seconds, by which time Brienne has declared herself the winner.

Jaime points out that she has two hands, so they were not evenly matched to begin with.

"You could have used your feet," Brienne retorts. "If I tried to stand on one foot right now, I'd probably keel over sideways, even in the water."

It's the first time in weeks that she's referred to her condition with even this faint suggestion of humour, so Jaime merely says, "You have me there," and subsides into the water.

Brienne follows him down. They've moved a little further out from the shore during their battle, and the water here is deep enough that they can sit with the water up to their shoulders and let their legs drift beneath them. It's cool and peaceful, even with the sun beating down on them.

At least, it's peaceful until Brienne attempts to float on her back. To say it's a failure would be to understate the situation quite a bit, since one of those waves that Jaime was so sure was not going to make an appearance today… appears, and breaks just short of where they're floating.

Jaime's there in a moment, hanging on to Brienne with an iron grip as the churning surf washes over them.

"I don't need rescuing," Brienne says, an edge to her voice, as she regains her feet and pushes her wet hair back out of her eyes.

"I wasn't…" Jaime's usually ready with a glib answer in almost any situation, but he can't find one now. "I just wanted to make sure."

He doesn't intend it, but there's that _something_ in his voice that makes Brienne bite her lip and look at him searchingly, and say, much more quietly, "It doesn't matter." She's the one who reaches for him then, and kisses him.

It's the first time she's initiated anything in weeks, and Jaime is only human. He kisses her back, there with the surf washing back and forth around them. Her mouth is wet and salty and cold and _Brienne_.

"I've missed you," he says against her lips.

Brienne doesn't pretend not to know what he's talking about. "I'm here now," she says quietly, and then shivers as his hand brushes her breast. Her nipples are jutting out, firm and hard thanks to the cool of the water. He's always liked her breasts, liked what touching them could do to her. They're larger now, more than just a handful, something he almost regrets, but even more sensitive with it.

Jaime brushes his hand across her breast again, this time with intent, and watches Brienne's eyes flutter in mute reaction. He tugs her, unresisting, back a little way towards the shallows, and then pulls her down so that she's sitting not quite on his lap, but above it, in the water.

His fingers go to her breast again, circling the nipple, and this time she moans.

He'd known, of course, about some of the more unexpected effects that pregnancy could have on the female body, including a heightened level of sensitivity to any sort of touch. But no other woman, either in Jaime's experience or his imagination, has ever been or could ever be as responsive as Brienne when he lays his hand on her newly-rounded form.

He kisses the side of her neck. "Use your hand," he says. "Touch yourself."

Brienne moans again. He doesn't have to wonder if that's assent; her hand clamps tightly around his.

He guides her hand down past the swell of her belly, between her legs, parting the wet hair there, searching for and finding what lies beneath. It's just the tiniest brush of his fingertips against her hidden flesh, but Brienne tenses and cries out, not even trying to muffle the sound against her free hand. She bends a little more, allowing her own hand access, and Jaime's hand returns to her breast, making her shudder and moan again. This sort of contortion would probably be impossible on dry land, in their bed, but the water makes everything easier.

Brienne turns around a little in the water, repositioning herself, and Jaime's right arm goes around her back, supporting her. He kisses her neck, again, and she flings her head back. Only his arm, steady and strong, stops her from falling right back into the water. She's moving now, and he can feel the rhythm, hear all her little—and not so little—noises, gauging exactly what she needs from the building volume of her cries as his fingers at her breast move faster and faster. He leaves a trail of kisses down her neck and across her clavicle, all salty and wet, with the lingering tang of sweat on her skin.

His mouth finds her breast, just below the surface of the water, and he knows she's reached the pinnacle as his lips close around her nipple and she goes rigid in his arms. It hits her in waves—which a little voice in the back of his mind can't help but find appropriate—one after the other, again and again, as she trembles and shudders and cries out. Jaime would like to think that his name is in there somewhere, but it's clear she's too far gone to remember her own name right now, much less that of even a most beloved husband. (And he's not just saying that. She called him that once. Only once, but it's not something he's ever going to forget.)

What seems like a long while later, Brienne lies trembling in his arms, the little aftershocks still hitting her with the force of the smallest of waves crashing, tiny and harmless, against the beach.

"Jaime," she says at last, and somehow it's a relief to hear his name on her lips again, to know that she's returned from whatever exalted plane her rapture took her to without him. "You didn't…"

He shakes his head. He's still achingly hard beneath the water, but that's all but irrelevant right now. "You needed this," he says. And he needed this too, but it's almost impossible to put what he's feeling into words that make any real sense, so he just says, "_We_ needed this."

Brienne smiles, the sort of smile that was uncommon enough on her lips before she began increasing; it's been vanishingly rare since. He pulls her into the circle of his arm and they half-lie, half-drift in the water for a while, until it's impossible to ignore the increasing ferocity of the sun above them.

"I think I've had enough of the water for now," Brienne says, and slips out of his arms to find the sandy bottom with her feet.

"Then let's go back out," he says. He takes her hand, and this time she doesn't object. He notices that she's moving more purposefully through the water now. Not striding—that will have to wait until she's safely delivered, as she _will_ be—but the next best thing to it. She's holding herself straight and tall, properly herself again, and Jaime can't help but stare at her, amazed that she's somehow his. He wonders which god made a mistake and allowed him this sort of happiness. Whoever it was, he'll fight them with everything he has, sword, fist, _teeth_, if they try to take it back.

They reach the shore and dry off, getting dressed again before settling down on the blanket in the 'pavilion'. Jaime's about to investigate the contents of the picnic basket—lunch may have been not all that long ago, but he's never been opposed to the concept of a snack—when a huge yawn splits Brienne's face.

She holds a hand against her mouth, too late, but trying to look apologetic about it, and for a split second Jaime can see the girl she was, being scolded by her septa at such unladylike behaviour. He can only hope that the old bitch met a fitting ending, and that she's roasting slowly somewhere in the afterlife.

He smiles at Brienne encouragingly, wanting to banish every bad thought, forever.

"I think I'd like to rest for a while," she says.

"Then rest," he says. "I have a pillow ready and waiting for you." He pats his thigh.

Brienne smiles. He _thinks_ that she very nearly laughs, though perhaps that's just wishful thinking. She lies down on her side, and lays her head in his lap.

"This is nice," she says drowsily, as he strokes her damp hair, gently carding his fingers through it and teasing out the tangles.

"Yes, it is," he agrees.

She doesn't speak again, and after a little while Jaime looks down to find that her eyes are closed. As he watches, she lets out a sigh and snuggles closer. She's asleep, lying loose and relaxed against him.

It's a relief, after last night and all the other nights when she hasn't been able to get comfortable, hasn't been able to properly relax, and sleep has eluded her deep into the night.

In the end, all it took was a heatwave, a swim in the water, and… Jaime. And yes, he can't help but feel a little pleased with himself after the response he got, even though he knows that a good part of it wasn't him at all but just the keyed up state of Brienne's body. Maybe he'll be able to coax her away from her duties and back to this beach after the baby arrives, and he can find out for sure just how much of it is him.

But for now Jaime is content to sit here and stroke Brienne's hair. It's enough. It's more than enough. It's more than he ever dared hope for.

He looks out to sea, and he can't help but smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, apparently pregnancy and sex in water are two of my recurring motifs when writing this pair, though this is the first time I've managed both at once.
> 
> Also, I realised, after I posted Walking in the Sun Once More yesterday, that I've now written more than 150,000 words of JB fic in the past four months. I'm really astounded about that. So thanks to everyone who's read and commented and left kudos on any of my fics. They've really encouraged me to keep going. (Yes, I'm always ready to share the blame, though I think these two would have forced me to keep writing even if almost no one was reading. ;)


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